Page 67 of Anyone But You
“The bank is launching an investigation, and I’m calling in a case for Adult Protective Services because their theft put our mother in a state of neglect when she was sent to some bummy-ass nursing home that couldn’t meet her needs. Those bitches are going to the pen.”
“Amen. I’m sorry, Victoria.”
She rolled over in the bunk coffin and pinned those espresso-brown eyes on me. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I came out on top, and those bitches are gonna pay for everything.”
I kissed her, and my mind flashed back to every kiss we shared under the waterfall, the afternoons we spent huddled in the hammock—praying to get home and dreaming of A.C., ice-cold sodas, and countless hours of lovemaking.
I have a second chance at life, and I’m taking it.
I broke the kiss and stroked her face. “May I offer my assistance with having your mother transferred?”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can, Tori, but let me do this for you, and if not for you, then for your mother as a thanks for birthing and raising the most diabolical woman I’ve ever loved.”
I thumbed away the tears that slipped from her lids.
“I’m so glad that shark didn’t eat you,” she whispered through tears. She pressed her face into my chest and wrapped her arms around me.
“Me too. But now that I think about it, why did I always suffer catastrophic injuries?”
“I was stung by a sea urchin,” she reminded me.
I rolled my eyes.
“Big fucking deal,” I murmured, feeling my lids grow heavy.
“Will you allow me to escort you back to the med bay now that you’ve properly harassed me? I’m no doctor, but I have a feeling you should be hooked up to an IV and a vital machine.”
“Sure. Just give me one more minute,” I answered sleepily.
“You’re not going back, are you?”
“Not unless you come with me.”
She groaned, and it was music to my ears.
“You better be glad I love you, Gio.”
“I love you, too, Tori.”
21
California Dreaming
Knox
“Oh, my God, Knox. You look….”
Doug Reynolds, my trusted attorney of fifteen years, smoothed his hand down his tie repeatedly as he tried and failed to find the words. Typically, the man was brutal, so it was intriguing to see the harsh man, tongue-tied and ill-prepared.
“Like a cracked leather handbag you found at the church bazaar with a five-dollar price tag; don’t be shy,” Victoria remarked, her weak attempt at trying to turn my trusted lawyer against me.
“I-I wouldn’t say that,” Doug sputtered, unable to meet my gaze. “You look like a survivor.”
“Yikes,” Victoria said, laughing as she entered the SUV that idled on the tarmac. I rolled my eyes and climbed in after her.
After we were rescued, Dr. Hubbard determined I was stable enough for transport after 48 hours. Victoria and I were transferred to Guam before being flown to Los Angeles via private jet. The jet had barely landed, and I was already ready to say, “fuck it all” and charter a flight back to the island with my mouthy bride.
